


A home for the lost

by Jessa_yeah



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Adventure, F/F, F/M, Feel-good, Gen, M/M, Post-Battle of Five Armies, aro ace OC, bi Tauriel, build yourself a home, chosen family, gay ace bilbo baggins, let's be a family, let's build something new
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-18
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-04-24 16:42:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14359464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jessa_yeah/pseuds/Jessa_yeah
Summary: At the end of winter, Bilbo leaves Erebor, alone. This will not be a sad story, I promise.





	1. The Grey Mountains

**Author's Note:**

> This will have multiple chapters, I'm not sure yet how many. I wrote in a slight AU where Dís becomes King under the Mountain, it is her birthright after all. I also left the whole gold madness business out of this storyline, because it is frankly unnecessary for the plot and I also have some major issues with the whole concept.  
> Hope you enjoy! I'd be delighted if you let me know what you think.  
> This work is inspired by Imaginary_golux's epic and amazing Coats&Costoms verse, and Esama's hilarious and thought-provoking Green Lord of Dol Guldur series.

The end of winter was approaching when Bilbo set out from Erebor, alone. Gandalf had offered to bring him back to the Shire on his horse, but Bilbo had insisted on going alone, and a hobbit can be terribly stubborn, and finally Gandalf gave in. A winter in Erebor had softened some of the sharp edges of Bilbo’s grief and put balm on his heartbreak, but he was left feeling quite lost and empty and restless, not sure of himself or his place in Middle-Earth anymore. A long pilgrimage alone on foot sounded just about right. 

He said his goodbyes to the remaining dwarves of Thorin’s company, quite a few of whom promised to come visit him in the Shire someday. Hardest was it to say goodbye to his close friend Bofur, whom he could always trust upon for either sensible advice, a cheerful story or just a peaceful shared pipe, and Ori, good lad he was, whom Bilbo had gotten to tutor in caligraphy and cooking over the past months. Dís, King under the Mountain, had bid him a solemn but heartfelt farewell, Balin and Dwalin straight-backed behind her throne. Bilbo trusted the Kingdom would be safe in her strong hands. 

He was well-dressed and well-provisioned when he set out on the rocky trail, Sting on his side, his purse full of gold and a pack-pony trailing behind him. Sometimes the trail was hard and steep and demanded his full attention. Most of the time however the going was a bit easier and he could let his mind wander. In Erebor, he was kept busy, chatting with Dwarves and comforting the injured and working the odd jobs. Even at night he had always been surrounded by others in one of the few spaces in the Mountain that were cleaned and declared safe. Now that he had ample time to think it was inevitable that memories would resurface. Many were of Fíli and Kíli, being mischievous and brave and so very young. Some were of the many Dwarves and Men and Elves who had lost their lives in the battle or died from their wounds after. Who would never see a new spring again. And of course memories of Thorin, proud majestic Thorin on a mission to reclaim his home, who had also found his way into Bilbo’s heart but then dared to die.

Maybe Bilbo was now searching for new memories. 

Bilbo headed north on vast plains until he stumbled upon the foothills of the Grey Mountains, where he turned west, skirting the edges of the Greenwood. He was not afraid of the road like he might have been before, or of wild animals, or of the dark. He lived of his provisions and whatever the early yeartide provided him: fresh greens, roots, some leftover nuts. Sometimes he managed to catch a fish or shoot some game with his small bow and was proud of himself. One day flowed into another like the clear streams of meltwater that tumbled down from the mountainsides as he fell into the reassuring rhythm of trekking. There were times he treasured: a starry night, far views over trees and white mountain tops, skittish deer, the first spring flowers. It was not in the nature of Bilbo to grieve very long, very deep. He wept, sometimes, but just as often was also suddenly, achingly glad to be alive in this beautiful world. 

Life can be cruel. It gives and it takes, seemingly at random, without reason. Bilbo learnt that lesson a long time ago; he had still been very young when both his parents died. The waves of sadness and regret were real, and painful. He also refused to let them pull him under. Huddled by the fire at night he carefully let himself imagine what it could have been like, a life beside Thorin. How much more Erebor would have been a home. Thorin would have taken his rightful place as King under the Mountain, of course, and Bilbo would have been beside him, maybe in his own smaller throne, assisting Thorin in his rule of the Kingdom. They would have taken Kíli and Fíli under their wing, teaching them and loving them as children of their own. Dís would be beaming with joy instead of silent in her grief. Bilbo would have asked for a little office somewhere, and he would have gotten a piece of ground for a garden, to provide the kitchens with delicious fresh things. And Thorin would have been there, steady at his back, his arms strong and warm around him at night. Thorin; his expressive eyes and beautiful voice and quick temper and devoted, caring nature. He had deserved so much better, but not gotten it. 

Bilbo had gotten to know many good people and made some very good friends and had even fallen in love, but now he was alone again, for he had not wanted to stay in Erebor. It was less of a saddening thought than Bilbo would have guessed beforehand. If he looked at himself, all he had done and learnt in less than a year time and how it had changed him, he couldn’t help but wonder what the coming years would have in store. Hope blossomed inside him like the blossom appearing on the cherry tress that grew in the high meadows. He had loved and he had lost, but he had, he had gone out into the world, and wasn’t that what mattered in the end. By the time he left the foothills of the Grey Mountains, another thought played across his mind, like a promise. 

_Plant your trees. Watch them grow._


	2. A lovely place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo approaches the Misty Mountains.

Days got even longer. The air grew rich with scents and warmth.

Bilbo’s thoughts turned towards the Shire, its green rolling hills and round doors and winding little streams. The pairs of respectably married hobbits, each with their share of children. He imagined how the neighbors would talk, calling him odd and selfish. He thought about his carefully kept hobbit hole with all the small breakable things. For the first time he wondered if he would still feel at home there. The Shire seemed restricting now somehow, too sheltered, a long way from everything. He would miss the big mountains, the great grassy plains and deep forests and thundering waterfalls. The sheer irony of helping a Kingdom of Dwarves reclaim their home only to might end up not really having one himself was not lost on him. Still, the Shire had been the only home he had ever known and so he kept walking south alongside the banks of the Anduin, the Great River, occasionally coming through tiny villages of Men where he bought new provisions. At the old ford he took a ferry to the other side, walked west for a few days, passed a town and saw the mighty peaks of the Misty Mountains looming ahead. His heart made a jump. He remembered the beautiful valley of Rivendell on the other side of those mountains, within it the Last Homely Home with its jolly elves, and longed to arrive there. Lord Elrond’s council was said to be wise.

The East-West Road felt strange under his bare feet when he stepped on it and started to climb. It was broad and paved, well-used by travelers and trade caravans, but he didn’t meet anyone yet. The dry grasslands made way for forested hills, and then for low mountains peaks with small valleys in between, the grass green and lush with an abundance of wildflowers. It was such a lovely area that Bilbo lingered inside one of the valleys and made an early stop for the night, setting up his tent beside a glassy blue lake and laying on his back in the grass for hours. It was only when he turned to leave the next morning he saw the hole in the rock above where he had camped. He carefully scrambled to the entrance, not really knowing what he was looking for but not feeling like leaving either, and stepped inside. The cave was not very special: a tad small and low, with moist walls and an uneven floor. But when he stood in the entrance and faced the outside, the view was beautiful. Bilbo looked out over the valley, which stretched quite some way to the right, beyond the lake and then gently rising into forest. On the left he could see the winding road and other valleys beyond and on the opposite side were small rock faces, backed by taller peaks beyond. 

Then he saw the other cave. 

It was quite large, and perfect, more overhang than cave, roomy and light and very livable. It faced South-West, so the sun would shine into the entrance for the better part of the day, but Bilbo did not think it’s position was so high it would catch strong winds. The valley was at the right attitude, too. High enough for it to still be fresh and green in summer, but it would not be snow-covered for too long. He led his patient pack-pony inside through the rocky but not very steep gully and started unloading him. The next few days it rained and Bilbo was quite busy, clearing the floor with an improvised broom and weaving mats from long grass for sitting and sleeping and as windscreens, tied to poles he cut from the trees, and all the while he still didn’t know why he even bothered. 

A new morning dawned clear and bright and, on an impulse, Bilbo cut through the thick blanket of grass and rolled it back, curious at what he would find underneath. Sting was not the most handy tool for the job, but after some hours of hard work he had a bare patch of good, dark, moist earth that his hands were just aching to dig in, to plant seeds in, to coax beautiful and delicious things from. It only then occurred to him what it was exactly that he was doing. He could be quite oblivious sometimes, a trait he and Thorin had seemed to share. He was making a garden, which meant… he was making a home for himself. Did he want to live here? Could he even do that? 

Bilbo saddled his pony, gathered a few of his things and rode back to the East, to the town of humans that lay at the foot of the mountains. In the saddle, the journey only took him a few hours. His mind was whirling. It seemed to him that he should be concerned, milling over uncertainties and feelings and all the problems he might encounter, but instead he was feeling happier than in months, full of energy and ideas and plans. He went to the marketplace, looking at the goods that were sold and chattering with some of the merchants. His small statue and bare, furry feet drew some attention, which was only to be expected. But when a young kid cautiously approached him and exclaimed, “You are Master Bilbo Baggins! The hero who killed the dragon!”, no one could have expected him to not be perplexed. It took a few seconds for Bilbo to recover. 

“You’re right I’m called Bilbo Baggins, little one,” he said to the kid, who had a head full of curls and was bouncing enthusiastically. “But I very much doubt that I’m a hero, and I did certainly not slay a dragon. We have to thank Lord Bard of Dale for that.” The kid was still staring at him with an awed expression, clearly not having taking in his words at all. He sighed. 

“Never mind, kid. Can you take me to the Mayor of this town?” And that, at least, the kid was able to do. 

Bilbo returned to the marketplace after that. He bought as many kinds of seeds a he could get his hands on: tomato, pumpkin, strawberry, grape, cabbage, carrots; his mind going over the different types of plants and herbs and flowers he had seen growing near the cave. A few different types of grains, too, sure, and beans, and potatoes of course. He supposed he would want animals too, at some time; but for now he didn’t know if he could protect them well enough so he bought a good supply of animal produce instead. He found a good set of garden tools and topped that off with some small farming and carpentry tools; he hardly had the strength of one of the bigger folks, after all. Then he shopped for some luxury items: paints, fabrics, sugar, cookware. When he set out again in the late afternoon, the pony was heavily loaded. Bilbo was content. 

Within a few months, he had his own stall in the marketplace. He sold an array of goods, from dried herbs to handkerchiefs to pieces of calligraphy, but most popular were his pies, both savory and sweet, gold-brown and crunchy and very, very tasty.


	3. Gardens upon the mountain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visitor arrives.

‘ _Bilbo Baggins’ Teahouse. Open, except on market days_ ’, the wooden sign on the side of the road read in lovely cursive. Gilraen of the Dúnedain raised both her eyebrows and turned her horse off the road. Half a mile later she rounded a bend in the trail and saw the – and here her mind stumbled upon the right word – cave? Except it did not really look like one. It looked more like a terrace, roomy and open and airy but protected from the elements by limestone and colorful screens. At its foot lay gardens and meadows where animals grazed and little pieces of farmland, narrow gravel paths winding through it all. Golden wheat was waving in the wind, bees were buzzing around flowers and fruit was ripening beneath the summer sun. Gilraen stopped her horse and kept looking around, quite stunned at this place, which in winter had been very much uninhabited, she was absolutely sure of that. A small, curly head popped out from behind a screen and exclaimed, “Ah, I thought I heard something! Do come up, if you please. I was just making lunch.”

Bilbo Baggins – and what a surprise it had been to find the hobbit from the tales here! -, it turned out, wasn’t living alone in this place. He had eight co-inhabitants, six of them humans, and two of them dwarves. The humans were from Anduinford, the town below. There were Godfried and Gerald, young, muscular brothers who helped Bilbo on the land and with the animals. Ysaude was a delight, a clever young lass who took eagerly to anything Bilbo taught her. Isabella, Juliana and Margery were middle-aged women weavers, Gilraen learned. One of them had lost her husband in a recent war. Well, Gilraen knew first-handed how that felt. She felt at ease in the women's company, even if the life of a common weaver was very different to that of a Ranger. The two dwarves were more silent and spend more time in the depths of the cave, so it took longer to get to know them. Mir was a skilled carpenter, young yet for a dwarf although her beard was already full and elaborately braided and decorated. She had traveled with trade caravans for years, repairing wheels and wagons before getting tired of being on the road all the time and settling down here. Kalur was what Gilraen would call non-binary, although she knew the Dwarven term was different; one who was neither man or woman. Kalur’s craft was the brewing of ales and meads and they consulted regularly with Bilbo over receipts and techniques. The honey-sweet, raspberry-flavored liquor they came up with together was a force to be reckoned with. 

Gilraen got familiar with the woods and meadows and peaks of the valley on her walks. It continued to have surprises for her, although luckily none of the bad kind. She found little secluded pools and hidden forest clearings and streams she hadn’t seen before. Bilbo added her discoveries carefully in his new map. Gilraen supposed she should leave someday soon, she had other duties and responsibilities after all and she longed to see her son, but she would not leave quite yet. She was concerned for the safety of this kind and foolishly brave hobbit, living out on the mountainside with his small collection of strays, none of who showed much interest in weaponlore. Anything could happen to them out here – bandits, wargs, orcs; the images flooded her brain and woke her sometimes up at night. She would guard the place until Bilbo had managed to attract a proper guard. 

If she was honest to herself though, her concern for their safety, although very real, wasn’t the only reason she lingered. The peace of the gardens and green meadows had transferred to her. Spending time with Bilbo and its other inhabitants was so very easy and a nice break from her usual routine of traveling the north. They worked together during the days and exchanged stories and sang songs in the evenings; slowly getting to know each other. Another reason to linger was the fact that Bilbo was an excellent cook, although he kept complaining about missing his good old cooking equipment. Gilraen wasn’t sure how he still could improve his cooking. The hearty meals he cooked and, even more so, everything he baked was _worth_ traveling the Misty Mountains for. So she stayed, a little longer at least. The warmth of summer drew to a close. Harvest time approached.

Gilraen came back from one of her errands one afternoon to find Bilbo sitting behind his small freshly-cut desk, an impressive pile of paper in front of him. He was sharpening his goose feather. She entered the room and shrugged off her bow. Bilbo smiled at her and said, “I put this off far too long. But people will begin to worry about me. I need to tell them where I am. And I will need to organize for many things, I suppose.” 

Gilraen was curious. “Why did you put it off? I thought you liked books, and maps, and writing.” 

Bilbo sighed. “I do, really. But it is hard to write letters when you don’t have the words to explain yourself. People will expect me to be in the Shire, or at least to be on my way to there. I thought and talked about it so often on my way to the Lonely Mountain.” He looked a bit sad. “I suppose I outgrew it.”

Gilraen said, “Did you consider that the Shire might also not be the same either? People change, but places do so too, if a bit more slowly I’ve found. The Shire may not be the same Shire you left behind.”

Bilbo nodded. “I could hardly think about anything else this afternoon. I want to know how things are faring there, even if I won’t return.” He pulled the pile of paper towards him. 

“Change is slow in the Shire, if it comes at all,” Bilbo told them that evening. They were all gathered in the dining room. The fireplaces were lit and mugs with hot, spiced mead shared. “The Shire is surrounded by forests and tall, bare hills on all sides. It is not connected to any of the main roads. Very few outsiders ever visit the Shire, or indeed know that it even exists. And it is not thought off as respectable for a hobbit to go traveling themselves, either, for we are told from child’s age that we are made out of the Shire’s very roots and can’t bloom anywhere else. To call someone an adventurer is one of the worst insults one can give.” He shook his head and his curls, grown long and braided in the front in proper Dwarven fashion, glowed in the amber light. “The Shire has wide fields, and green hills, and lakes and gentle streams. Its earth is very fertile. Hobbits build holes into the the hills, with round doors and windows and gardens around them. It looks like a peaceful and prosperous land, and I guess it is. But when it turns out you don’t fit in, in some way or other… well, let’s just say the gossip can turn quite nasty. The neighbors will still be polite… but nothing more than polite. You don’t _belong_ anymore.” Gilraen caught Isabella and Margery share a meaningful look. 

“Were you lonely there?” Ysaude asked, quietly. The lass adored Bilbo, his gentle ways and everything he had done for her, and she clearly hated the idea of him being alone and unhappy in a far-off land.

It was a while before Bilbo replied. “I was,” he admitted, “but I only realized how lonely I was when I joined Thorin Oakenshield’s company. It took a while before we got to know and understand each other. Dwarves can be even more stubborn than hobbits are,” grinning at Mir and Kalor, who both rolled their eyes in reply. “But then, quite suddenly, I found myself part of a group who accepted me for who I was, my non-masculine ways and liking for men included. I developed a crush on Bofur first. Once you’ve met him, you’ll understand why. He’s charming, funny, easy-going. Even now, he’s still my dear friend and I miss him. But then I fell toes over knees for Thorin. He was so beautiful. He made me feel safe, and loved, and wanted. I was heartbroken when he died.”

It was the first time Bilbo had talked so openly about his feelings for Thorin. To Gilraen's surprise, Bilbo's eyes were dry and he was smiling. He jumped up, all cheerful energy again. “Now, enough of this. Who wants to learn a hobbit dance?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for everyone who commented, I really appreciate it! I've been on hiking holiday, so this chapter took a bit longer to finish. I hope to get the next chapter posted next week. There will be a fifth chapter after that, maybe a sixth. Hope you enjoy!


	4. The First Homely House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lord Elrond gets a suprise.

It was mid autumn when the elves of Rivendell were treated upon a remarkable sight: a hobbit, dressed in bright reds and greens, steering a wagon piled high with barrels and bags and pots. Beside the hobbit sat a young human lass and behind the wagon rode a red-haired elf maiden, well-armed, upon a beautiful black horse. The hobbit hopped off the wagon and bowed to the assembled, amazed elves, “A good morning to you, good folk! I am Bilbo Baggins of Anduinford. Some of you may still recognize me. On the horse rides Lady Tauriel, head of my guard, and here is young miss Ysaude, my assistant in matters of trade. I would like to speak with Lord Elrond.” A short silence fell in which the elves seemed too stunned to reply. Then a child came rushing in from behind the group and called out: “Look, it’s Bilbo Baggins, the hobbit who riddled with the Dragon! Mother told so much about him!” It was of course Estel, the son of Gilraen. Behind the small boy came Gilraen herself, rather more slow and graceful and smiling warmly. Someday Bilbo would get used to strangers knowing his name and deeds. Maybe. 

Tauriel enjoyed walking around in Imladris. It was a beautiful place, there was no denying it, even if it seemed like not much was going on. The rock walls rose up high all around the place, almost like a gorge, so the valley was protected and well-hidden. Bows arched up to the sky and the buildings curved around the trees. Bridges were build over the many waterfalls, and hidden rooms and artifacts and sculptures could be found everywhere. The elves themselves were less different that she’d imagined. All her life she had heard stories about the Noldor and Sindar elves, their glory and great deeds and dignity as opposed to the more foolish Silvan elves, but she found the elves she met to be very similar to herself, tall and agile and rather reserved. Their complexion was a fair bit darker than her own, and many had hair that was black, with brown or deep-grey eyes. Lord Elrond could have been imposing if she had not known Tranduil in one of his more furious moods, but now he seemed more like a strict father to her. She had the delight of meeting his children: she liked the twins, they reminded her of some of the more mischievous of her friends back in the Greenwood. Arwen Undomiel was every bit as lovely as Tauriel was told, with her purple-black eyes like the night sky and glorious curly hair. She also was lethal as hell with her sword. It turned out, however, that Tauriel was a match to her in speed – the result of all the spider battles, she supposed. It was a joy to practice together and Tauriel even learnt some new tricks and techniques from her. And if after that they went to the bathhouse together and Tauriel was invited to Arwen’s private rooms, well, what about it? Pleasure is meant to be shared freely between those who want to share it, or so her mother had at least always told her. A detailed discussion about how exactly the Imladris elves thought about the matter could wait until the morning. 

Bilbo, meanwhile, took Ysaude with him and went to converse with Lord Elrond. “My dear Bilbo,” the elf lord said to them, “I had expected to see you back soon, but not with news of the founding of a new dwelling, nor with human and elven companions.” He smiled then at Ysaude, which made him look very different, she thought, not so strict and concerned. The next day the trade negotiations started, which involved many more elves and detailed discussions about food and numbers and prices until Ysaude’s head spun. They left Rivendell a week later with a signed trade contract. Lord Elrond bade them farewell and also had some last private words with Bilbo. Ysaude was curious what that was about, but Bilbo never told her. 

Their trading network slowly expanded. After Rivendell they supplied villages of Men alongside the Anduin with cheese and spices and ales, and then to Lorien they shipped sweet dried fruits that would not grow in the forest and the herbal flavoured candies Galadriel took a special liking to and glass pots of meadow honey (Bilbo had not known elves to have such a sweet tooth). Even Tranduil could not resist the bottles soft-pink rose petal mead they presented to him. They got paid well for their goods and invested the money back into the farm. 

Tauriel realized one day that the valley looked very different then when she had first arrived there, just sacked from her position as Tranduil’s Head of the Guard, sick with grief from Kíli’s death and the battle’s general devastation, uncertain about herself and the world. Then it had just been the cave and the modest beginnings of a farm. Now the valley also had several colorful wooden cottages, where those lived who did not fancy living beneath the stone. The gardens and cultivated grounds had expanded. A stable had been build, so the animals had a refuge from cold and predators in the night. A tall, heated glasshouse was its newest pride; inside they grew spices and flowers and vegetables that usually only could be found much further south. Tauriel rotated lookouts and did her inspections and went with trading caravans, spending time with her friends Legolas and Arwen when she could. She got her hands dirty when helping a sheep birth her lamb, or repotting a young sapling. She felt reborn. Bilbo had offered her a new challenge, a new feature she could help build, and it was more rewarding than anything she had done before.

The place did not immediately got a name. Or, rather, it got a whole lot of names, but none that everyone could agree on. Inhabitants simply called it home, or Anduinford, as they considered themselves as part of the town. Humans living east of the Misty Mountains called it Upper Anduinford, the little lovely place above the great markettown. Traveling bards were already singing songs about it. For their trading partners they were Bilbo’s Farm; among travelers on the East-West Road it was spoken of as Bilbo’s Refuge, a safe, pleasant place to spend a night or two and get fussed over and spoiled with good food and teas and ale. Bilbo never asked for money, but merchants started to bring them gifts. A small portion of their trading goods, maybe, or some kind of tool, or something nice for the interior. Sometimes they even brought people: infants with no one to look after them, older people looking for a peaceful place to retire, young or not-so-young people wanting to learn a certain skill. Bilbo’s place grew. Over the course of several years, it seemed like it had always been there. 

That was when it got its final name: Lakedell, the valley with the deep blue lake opposite the mountains from Rivendell. It was the First Homely House for travelers from the west who had just crossed the High Pass, and for people who came from the east it was the First Homely House ‘up to Hobbit standards of comfort’, in Bilbo’s own words. Lakedell got prosperous and lively, its inhabitants content and well-fed. Bilbo was happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to read up on elven history and customs and got horribly confused. Tolkien, why? Much doesn't make any sense and some of it outright sounds like a conservative's dream - I mean, sex achieves marriage, really? So, only loosely following canon here. Hope you enjoy this chapter! Really appreciating the kudos and comments :)


	5. A new adventure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is late autumn and usually Lakedell would be settling down for the snowy, quiet winter months ahead. This year is different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is hard to find the energy and motivation to write in this long, long heatwave that has europe in its grasp; however, this evening I managed to sit down behind my laptop and finish another chapter. I'm definitely not done yet with this story! Hope you're still enjoying this I much as I do.

As it was rumored, it was Gandalf who came as a disturber of the peace. He was, however, expected, because Bilbo came running out to the gate and called out to the wizard, “Gandalf, finally! I know you have a habit of saying that wizards arrive exactly when they mean to, but that is just a nonsense excuse for being late that I don’t have to put up with. Come inside, we have things to discuss.” It was quite funny, Ysaude thought, to see the tall grey-haired wizard being pulled along by their little hobbit lord. Gandalf took it with good grace though, half-grinning in his long beard. Ysaude was curious and followed them inside. Luckily, Bilbo got her a cushion and let her stay. Gilraen and Mir both joined them, and then Tauriel, who informed them that Kalur and the lady weavers stood guard at the entrance. Apparently, this was a serious matter. 

Bilbo didn’t walk around the issue. Once he got them all mugs of ale and a platter of cakes (because there Should Always Be Food), he turned to Gandalf. “Everything is ready. Few travel the roads on the verge of winter. My absence won’t be missed, and I can trust my friends here with the care for Lakedell.” Ysaude was torn between wanting to beam with pride and gape with astonishment. Bilbo was leaving? Why? For how long? Before she knew it, she heard herself saying, “If you’re leaving, then I’m coming with you.”

And that was how she ended up on the back of a pony, riding down the familiar slopes (but avoiding Aduinford) and traveling south to unknown places, she supposed. She was excited. Ysaude moved her pony to ride beside Bilbo over the meadow. “If you had the Ring with you all the time in Lakedell,” she asked him, “why are you now in such a hurry to destroy it? Wasn’t it safe anymore to keep it?” Bilbo, strangely, looked a bit guilty. “I’m sorry I haven’t told you anything before, Ysaude.” he said. “It would have been disastrous if word got out that the Ring was in Lakedell, so I decided to keep this matter very close to my heart, until the very last possible moment.” Bilbo was interrupted by the approach of a tricky, rocky descent, but once on easier terrain he sought her out again. 

“I do not know much about what moves in the world,” Bilbo spoke, “you know I much rather busy myself with gardening, and cooking, and my books. But I have often visited Gandalf, who was healing from battle wounds in Rivendell the last years, and I have also been conversing privately with Lord Elrond and Lady Galadriel. They all shared with me their concern over the rising power of Sauron. Sauron was defeated in Dol Goldur the same year I founded Lakedell, but because his ring still survives he could not truly be destroyed, and it seems like he is gathering strength and followers again in a new stronghold. I did not yet knew then that my Ring was the One Ring, but I got uneasy. I feared that the power of my Ring would come to intervene with the peace and safety of Lakedell, and besides, I had no use for its power of invisibility. So I asked Lord Elrond and Gandalf for council when I was in Rivendell last month and showed the Ring to them. Lord Elrond immediately recognized it as the One Ring. After that, plans were quickly set in motion. The Ring has to be destroyed, there is no other way to stop Sauron from rising to full power again, and the sooner and quieter it is done, before Sauron even knows it has been found again, the better.”

Ysaude rode on with a lot to think about. 

Over the course of a few chilly, firelit evenings, Bilbo and Gandalf had told her and Tauriel, Gilraen and Mir – and weren’t they a strange little company, on a strange, secretive quest – all about this business with the Ring. It must be destroyed, apparently, and the only way to do that was to throw it in the volcano where it was made. Well, that didn’t sound too difficult, except that it probably was, because even cheerful Bilbo was often looking troubled now. She thought it had something to do with this volcano – she refused to call it Mount Doom, that just sounded overly dramatic – being in the middle of Mordor, some kind of ashy wasteland much more to the south. Which happened to be swarming with orcs. Well, first they had to actually get there. Not much use worrying about it until then. 

How did one go about making evil rings inside a volcano, anyway. 

Ysaude knew she should be terrified of orcs. It was orcs, after all, who four years ago had came down from the slopes with sunset and raided the farm, killing her parents and kidnapping the livestock. Ysaude herself had only survived because she had happened to be high up in her favorite tree, hidden from view. She wasn’t scared of orcs, not even that time in Lakedell when she had been on lookout and spotted the few individual orcs emerging from behind a rock. Instead, screams and the sight of blood and the smell of lilac brought back the memories and her fear and grief. She didn’t like to practice with weapons for that reason, when Gilraen and Tauriel had tried to teach her. Instead, Bilbo had gotten her a small bow and she had practiced until she was reasonably good. It was reassuring to feel the bow now on her back, although she much rather relied on her wits to keep herself safe. 

They headed in the direction of Lothlórien. She knew the way to Lothlórien, of course, although this time they kept off the plains, choosing the small mountain trails instead. Gandalf knew them. It seemed to her he was very old and knew very much. Which made him a perfect victim for her questions. Sometimes he seemed grumpy and only gave short answers. But often he took his time to explain things to her. She decided to take her chance when she spotted him sitting on a rock on a lunch stop, lighting his pipe. She moved to sit at his feet. Something bothered her about the orcs that had attacked her farm; she remembered now the way they had looked desperate and starved, how many had been wounded. They certainly had not seemed joyed at the opportunity to kill her parents when they had both came out with their axes, instead killing them swiftly with sword blows. 

“Master Gandalf,” she said, “please tell me about orcs. How can it be that an entire race is understood to be evil, when surely Men and Hobbits and Dwarves and Elves are not seen that way? It makes no sense.” 

Gandalf frowned at his pipe. “You ask questions which very few dare to ask themselves, young one,” he answered, after a while. “And even those deemed wise do not have a definite answer. I can only tell you what little I know, and have observed, and have thought.”

“That will have to do, then,” she shrugged, and the wizard snorted.

“Indeed. Well, legend has it that orcs were elves once, captured and tortured until even their newborn babies were cruel and skinny, with strong features unlike the elves. Don’t you believe it for a second, Ysaude.” he said, shaking his head. “It is rubbish. Children bear no scars except for the ones they get in life. And orcs age, unlike elves. My best guess is that the orcs were just another race of people once, peacefully living in the mountains south from here in caves not unlike dwarves, specializing in the production and smithing of iron. Until a yet young Sauron found them, judged them to be useful for his plans and captured them in spell so evil and powerful I can’t even begin to understand it. I think they are forced to be his servants, to do as he tells them, fighting wars and causing terror, dying and starving and getting wounded by masses in the process. Sauron’s power rises and wanes – maybe orcs are sometimes more as they once were in times of his weakness. Bilbo told me about the few orcs you saw in Lakedell, Ysaude. Normally, an orc wouldn’t just flee. Perhaps it offers us some hope of achieving our goal while Sauron is yet weak. And maybe the orcs’ fate is bound to the fate of the Ring and Sauron, too. Who knows what may become of them without that influence.”

Ysaude was more shocked than she wanted to show. She stared at the tall trees surrounding them without really seeing them. “If they are truly bound by a spell, and thus are not in control of their actions,” she finally said, “then I would wish for them to be freed of it, and to be able to live peaceful lives, just like we do in Lakedell.” 

Gandalf suddenly, brightly, beamed at her. “You are truly Bilbo’s child, Ysaude. And just like him, you have a habit of continuing to surprise me.” Ysaude couldn’t quite tell if his tone sounded more fond or exasperated. But it was definitely a compliment, and so she was smiling the rest of the afternoon.


	6. To the Great River

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The quest continues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while, but here's the next chapter! Enjoy!

Trees have begun to drop their fiery colored leaves when the fellowship starts their broad sweep around Lothlorien, providing a soft but slippery carpet beneath the pony’s hooves. Wildflowers no longer grow on the wilting grass meadows; but fir tree woods are as silent and dark and fragrant as they always are. Mir likes this terrain more than the open fields or more spacious forests, the dark and closed-in trees comforting and protective around her, like a wall made of wood. She catches Ysaude looking curiously at every new view, bless her young heart. It must be rather tiring, because each night after dinner the girl nods off and then one of the adults will tuck her into bed. Mir knows that Ysaude is not a child anymore according to Man’s reckoning - Bilbo would never have allowed her to come with them if she wasn’t - but she is still so young that Mir will secretively think of her as a child for some years more. There’s little enough harm in that.

Mir is rather surprised they haven’t ran into harm’s way yet, now she thinks of it. Sure; the group is small enough to not draw attention, its members quiet. It is already late in the season; they don’t meet fellow travelers, the prospect of heavy rains and storms and dropping temperatures making travel less attractive. But Mir has many years out on the road behind her belt and knows that trouble can pop up at the most unexpected times, and in the most unexpected ways. And also there is now the very real possibility of evil beings attracted to the power of the Ring. So she doesn’t allow herself to become too relaxed in the familiar routine of travel and keeps an eye out for potential danger. Like a proper dwarf, she always has her axes within easy reach, one large-bladed one on her back and a smaller axe on her belt. She doesn’t like using them for anything besides carpentry, would be a shame to nick her sharp blades on metal and bone after all, but she will not doubt a second to use them when needed. Luckily, for now it seems it isn’t.

They see beavers diving some last fresh branches to their holes, and giant elk grazing at sunrise. Playing squirrels and stouts deliver some amusement, while small game shot by Tauriel or Gilraen provide fresh meat. Ysaude finds them chessnuts to roast in the fire; Bilbo often returns from a short walk with a basket full of edible plants, mushrooms and roots. Mir falls asleep that night with her belly full with deer and pumpkin stew and pancakes with apple-berry compote, the dry, bland rations she was used to on her former journeys now merely a vague memory. 

Shortening days leave long, dark evenings with nothing to do but stare into the low fire and softly talk to each other. As Mir has experienced many a time before, there is nothing that brings people together quite like a journey through the wilderness. She supposes seeing each other tired, wet and muddy after a day out in the rain, the washing up in ice cold streams, the sleeping side-to-side in the small leather tent just does that to people. It feels only natural to express the growing closeness she feels. That night, she carefully unbraids her beard and washes it in a freshly-carved wooden bowl beside the fire, telling her companions a little about how intimate it is to let others watch her doing that. 

Tauriel seems to be feeling the same closeness, because she speaks about her parents growing restless in the Greenwood and moving to the West, which to Mir’s limited understanding is something similar to dying. It is certainly a topic all Elves are reluctant to talk about. Gandalf takes over with the tale of the battle he fought at Dol Goldur, which wounded him so grievously. “Can you die, though?” asks Tauriel, and then immediately seems to want to bite her tongue. It is one of the things Mir likes best about the elf; her tendency to speak without thinking. She is less reserved than most other elves Mir has met. Tauriel can even be downright fun when she wants to – watching her attempt a quick Hobbit jig was a sight to never forget. “I mean”, Tauriel hastily explains herself, “I do not mean to contest you either your pain or your courage, but I heard tales of Mithrandir since I was a small child, and I am already centuries old. I was wondering, are you immortal?” Gandalf doesn’t take offense. He looks up at the starry sky, deep in thought, and then answers Tauriel, “I don’t know, really. My body seems to get a little older and more weary, but I do not find my strength waning.” 

And that’s all the wizard ends up saying about it. 

It it almost too soon when they have to leave the cover of the hills and forests to make a quick dash over the wide plains between Lothlorien and Fangorn to the Great River Anduin. They have spoken at length about this decision but decide it is for the best, as continuing south around Fangorn would then bring them onto the lands of Rohan, a more densely populated area where the Rohirim patrol the fields, making it much harder to travel unnoticed. They will be more exposed in the flat, open terrain and Mir doesn’t like that thought much, but on the other hand, she knows that these are huge, empty lands. Who will be there to see them? She is suddenly, again, glad for Tauriel and her far-seeing elven eyes. They ride the plains by day and by night Mir dreams about orcs with torches and huge elephants and giant eagles hunting them and wakes up in cold sweat, heart hammering in her chest, but still nothing happens. Sometimes she wishes something would happen; the empty, dull horizons hour after hour, day after day start to get on her nerves. She never speaks that wish aloud, though. Better to not give Mahal or whoever any ideas.

Even here, her companions still find them fresh things to eat: fast but autumn-fat animals, plants that grow in more sheltered areas, food-stores animals have hidden away for winter. Finding enough clean water is more of a challenge, and the dry, dusty wind makes her all the more thirsty. But Mir is used to a little hardship, and does not complain. Keeping on her guard is harder here, though. Parched grass dances before her eyes in an ever repeating pattern until it all just becomes a large brown spot in front of her eyes and she is reasonable sure she can ride into the middle of a group of Wargs without her even noticing. 

And that is exactly what she does. 

Luckily for them, there are only a couple of them, their bellies full with bison meat from the carcass between them. The animals don’t even bother to get on their feet; a loud warning growl shakes the fellowship from their thoughts and they quickly retreat. After that, they assign a rotating look-out and ride on even harder. It is a relief when, stiff with seven days of dawn-to-dusk riding, Mir finally sees the horizon falling away into the broad gorge of the Anduin. They can now descend its forested hills and follow the azure river all the way to the Emyn Muil, where according to Gandalf the terrain will become too rocky and steep to continue on its shores. There, she supposes the relative comfort of their trip so far will end. Pointy rocks and dead marshes do not sound like good places for a pony to be. 

But first there is plenty of lovely clear, cool water, and the lovely smell of wood, and other colors than dull beige. They take advantage of the rather warm sunny afternoon and bathe in a shallow sidearm. It is lovely to wash away all the dirt and dust. Mir sighs contently and spreads out on the stones to dry, lightning her pipe as she takes over watch duty from Bilbo. Bilbo quickly strips out of his dusty clothes and dives right in, still avoiding the deeper water like he is afraid it might swallow his small frame. Mir knows it is not a custom among hobbits to bathe in public, but Bilbo has had ample time by now to get used to it, she supposes. Lakedell doesn’t exactly have private bathrooms either. Tauriel, lean and tall, and Ysaude, wide-hipped and almost as tall, are diving and splashing about and generally having lots of fun; Gandalf, looking surprisingly skinny and frail without his big robes, is half-submerged and talking quietly to Gilraen, who is washing her long, black hair. All in all, it is a very peaceful scene. Mir sighs contently. 

Talk in the evening turns towards relationships and life choices. Bilbo shares some memories of Thorin, and it helps paint an adorable image in Mir’s mind of the proud dwarven king and sassy hobbit pining at each other. Tauriel tells them about several delightful affairs she’s had with fellow Elves and even one human guard, but falling in love with a Dwarf. Like Bilbo’s relationship, it had lasted only short, yet she said to not regret a single thing but that she hadn’t been able to save him another time. Later in the evening Gandalf tells about his century long relationship with Radagast, another wizard who apparently keeps a more domestic lifestyle in a forest on the other side of the Misty Mountains. (Bilbo gets a satisfied ‘I knew it’-look on his face.) Gilraen then speaks about her passed away husband with a small smile on her strict face, how he was kind and level-headed despite his courage and great skill in battle. “Would you eventually like to find a new lover?” Bilbo asks her. “I have thought about it myself, but then, it might be hard to find a lover who is as… well, considerate, as Thorin was.” 

“Nobody since has caught my eye, but once Estel will be a bit older I will be open to the possibility, I guess.” Gilraen replied. “What do you mean, about Thorin being considerate?”

“Oh, I mean considerate about my specific boundaries. I… it is uncomfortable for me to speak of this. But I have never been interested to bed anyone. More than that, the very thought puts me off so much it nearly makes me sick. It was so hard to deny Thorin when he looked at me like that. But he was good to me. He never pressured me, was happy with what I could give him, even when I felt it was not enough.” The last sentence was merely a whisper. 

Mir walks to him and hugs him close. “It’s alright, my hobbit lord. I’m much the same, except that I don’t seem to fall in love, either.” She pauses for a moment, stroking Bilbo’s curls and gathering her thoughts. “It is not uncommon for Dwarves to devote their lives to their craft. I used to feel lonely at times, but I was free to travel with the caravans when most other Dwarves my age were reluctant to leave home because of courtships, apprenticeships or households. I got friends all over Middle-Earth and bonded with my fellow travelers. I soon realized that one does not need a partner to be content. I am glad now to remain in Lakedell and get to know you all better, and Ysaude, and Kalur, and the lads, the lady weavers, and everyone else. We may make a strangle family, but I think it is a good one.” 

The following morning they are packing their ponies when the peace of the morning routine is suddenly interrupted by Gilraen’s cry, “Boat from the north! Hide!” Mir spares a single glance and indeed sees a small shape approaching them on the river. The company all dive out of sight, dragging ponies with them into the forest, weapons in hand. Only Tauriel remains standing, back against a tree, nearly invisible in her elven cloak. To Mir’s huge relief, she is smiling. 

“All is well! It’s Arwen Undomiel!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to keep this chapter rather uneventful and make the challenge more about the up and downs of traveling through the wilds in general, much informed by my own long-distance hikes. It's something I don't see explored often, so it was fun to write from that perspective.   
> I've got two more chapters plotted out, then I'm def going to end this story. I think I'm more suited to one-shots. Much respect for everyone who writes these long, epic tales - it's exhausting and very time-consuming!


End file.
